When I Awoke, Dear, I Was Mistaken
by Lauralot
Summary: Agent Coulson wasn't the only one to watch Steve Rogers sleep. [Companion piece to "My Very Best Friend" but can be read individually.]


Coulson is keeping vigil at the captain's bedside.

Pierce expected as much even before Nick's latest call updating him on the status of Steve Rogers. There's a crowd gathered outside the recovery room, of course, but aside from the medical staff, Coulson is the only one Fury's permitted to attend to Captain America.

He's been there for hours by the time Pierce arrives, but when the guards usher the Secretary in, Coulson is still staring down at Rogers as though he can't believe his eyes. Pierce can't begrudge him that—if anyone knows the preserving power of ice, it's Alexander Pierce, and even he's having trouble wrapping his mind around this—even if the agent's star struck, glowing face is a little pathetic.

"Mr. Secretary," Coulson says, rising, but Pierce waves him off.

"Don't get up on my account. I hear you've been fending off gawkers for, what, the past five hours?"

"Six." He settles back down. "Security's handling most of it but occasionally someone slips in with the nurses. It was chaos when I arrived, though." Coulson casts a glance to the door, as if to assure it was properly sealed off after Pierce's entry. "Not that I can blame them for being curious."

Pierce nods. There's an empty chair at the side of the bed opposite Coulson but he doesn't take it yet, studying their surroundings. The room is set up to match the world Rogers knew, the modern medical equipment hooked up to the captain's body incongruous with the setting. "Has he shown any signs of stirring?"

"None yet, sir. They're monitoring closely."

Even unconscious and barely thawed, Steve Rogers is every inch the man the old film reels made him out to be. Pierce has never seen him in person before; there was a USO tour in the city when Pierce was growing up, but he'd missed each of the performances, stuck in bed with an ear infection. As a boy, he'd viewed that as one of the worst experiences of his life, second only to his father shipping out. To see Rogers now, alive and unchanged, is even more breathtaking than his childhood fantasies had anticipated. Suddenly he's seven years old again, staring right in the face of the hero from his comics. His throat is dry and for a moment he can almost believe in diplomacy and faith in his fellow man and freedom for all.

_Pull yourself together_, he thinks, swallowing back no small measure of self-disgust. _You know where wishful thinking leads._

Bogota.

"But they're sure he will wake?" Pierce asks, taking the empty chair.

"Definitely." The light in Coulson's eyes glows even brighter. It's a bit sickening, his naïve devotion, and all the worse because Pierce can catch a glimmer of his own reflection within it. Well, Coulson will learn one day, as Pierce had. Or he'll die. Either way, that light will be extinguished. "They're even dismissing the possibility of brain damage. It's—it's a miracle, sir."

It's a cosmic joke. But it's in Pierce's favor, so he allows himself a smile as he nods. "It's an honor just to see him." And what an honor it will be to see the look on the captain's face when HYDRA comes to fruition. To take charge of the world as Rogers realizes just how worthless his sacrifices really were. What a time to be alive. "And now—I suppose you'll have him sign your trading cards, won't you?"

There's a flush in Coulson's face, glee giving way to surprise. "How did you—"

"Nick talks about you very often." When Coulson doesn't look especially settled by that, Pierce adds, "And very highly. You should be proud. Only one of my friends ever got the whole set of cards growing up, and that was back when they were actually producing them." There was a time he'd burned with jealousy over that, until he'd had the bright idea to paint the trash can lid up like Captain America's shield and started a trend among the kids on the block.

"What's it like, seeing him again?" Coulson asks. "I mean, we've all read about him. But you lived through everything. It must be—"

"Unbelievable," Pierce says, which is frankly true. "I keep expecting to wake up. Speaking of, why don't you get yourself a cup of coffee? You haven't given yourself any breaks, have you?"

"I'm fine."

"There's no sense in running yourself ragged." Pierce nods to the bed. "He'll keep for a few minutes. And he'll appreciate what you've done for him already, I guarantee it."

Coulson shakes his head though he's standing up. "You want a moment alone with him, sir?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"There are five minutes before the medical staff checks in on him," Coulson says, checking his watch. "He's yours until then."

By the time Coulson forces himself out the door, there are likely only four minutes left.

Pierce glances around the room again. It's like sitting on a stage. The perfect backdrop for a hollow idol to awake to. And even when Rogers realizes this particular deception, the world as he'll come to know it will still be a front for HYDRA's coming new order.

Smiling, Pierce rests a hand over the captain's. He still feels like ice. Rogers doesn't stir.

"Look at you. The world's not going to know what to make of you."

A few seconds tick by in silence.

"What are you going to make of us?" Pierce asks. "This isn't the world you left behind."

It's HYDRA's world, irrevocably. It's Pierce's to control. To contain. It's embarrassing now, to be confronted with the personification of all the simplistic, optimistic ideals he used to cling to. There was a time Pierce had swallowed the captain's rhetoric; hook, line, and sinker. And like a child with a favored blanket, he'd clung to that belief for far too long, until it had been ripped away. Until his daughter's capture forced him to wake up.

Realizing the only reason his child's blood wasn't on his hands was because his subordinate had betrayed the beliefs Pierce built his career around—there was no experience more sobering. Figuratively speaking, at least. That night, after he had held his daughter closer than ever before, but before he sought out Zola, was one of the three times past his youth that Pierce had ever been drunk. The second occurrence was the day his wife died.

The third was last night, when Nick first called about Rogers.

"You know, you were lucky," Pierce says. "You got to go out in blaze of glory. You never had to question your ideals, did you? Never lost sleep over your choices?"

Never had to grow up. Never had to get his hands dirty. And now even his last great sacrifice turned out to be a sham.

"What will you think of the world now?" His mouth twists into a grin. Pierce glances toward the still-closed door, shakes his head. "Of the mess it's become since you left us? How much will it burn to know that everything you fought against took root right under the noses of the people you loved? To realize all your sacrifices were for nothing?"

Rogers still hasn't stirred.

"But they weren't your sacrifices, were they? You were the symbol, the unattainable ideal. It was the others who did the heavy lifting. Stark and Carter and Barnes."

Barnes had been Pierce's priority from the very beginning, the moment he'd taken command of HYDRA. And much as it had been a tactical move, recovering the Winter Soldier from Russia, regaining control of the organization's greatest weapon, there had been a childish thrill in bringing Barnes back to the States. Pierce had idolized Barnes nearly as much as Rogers in his youth. He'd always ached at the injustice of the loyal friend who died before even knowing their foes were vanquished.

Saving Barnes, saving the world, doing everything that Captain America never could…it was intoxicating.

Or so the idea had been until Aleksander Lukin introduced him to the Winter Soldier.

"Come here, _malen'kiy soldat_," Lukin had ordered, and Bucky Barnes, young as the day he'd fallen, had stalked silently toward them, eyes downcast. "Say hello to the Secretary. From now on, you are his."

Barnes lifted his gaze. His eyes, dark and blank as an animal's, landed on Pierce but did not scrutinize. He did not speak.

"_Soldat_," Lukin said sharply.

Barnes did not tremble, but something tensed throughout him. "_Zdravstvuyte_," he muttered, his voice like rust, looking at the ground again.

"He's drugged?" Pierce asked, and Lukin had smiled.

"No, only controlled." He stroked a hand down the Soldier's dark hair and Barnes did not react. "The programming becomes erratic over the years, you see. The more use, the more instability. So more dramatic measures are necessary to keep the Soldier in line. Not to worry, all the necessary maintenance procedures are included in the files."

"But he remains functional?"

"To a degree." Lukin's smile hadn't faltered. "You've heard, I am sure, of the Itsu assassination? Or the Shostakov mission?"

A nod. Two of the Winter Soldier's best known, most impressive performances.

"Such a level of independence is no longer feasible," Lukin had continued. "The recalibration…his ability for self-maintenance suffers, you see? He no longer functions without supervision, but his aim is precise as ever." And he pinched the Soldier's cheek, smirking. "You're still good for that, aren't you, _moy malen'kiy soldat_?"

And Barnes just stood.

Pierce had to bite back a surge of revulsion. So much skill, so much potential, pissed away for ease of handling. The Winter Soldier had been HYDRA's greatest weapon. Had been the redemption for a young and brilliant man who'd nearly lost his life to his childish ideals. And now he was reduced to a mindless little plaything.

"He was a hero," Pierce had said shortly. He turned to go, beckoning for Barnes to follow, and the Soldier trailed silently behind him. "You disgust me."

"He is a gun, Mr. Secretary." Lukin had laughed. "And a gun needs no dignity to do its work."

"I'm bringing you home," Pierce had told the Soldier once they were strapped into his private jet. "Where you belong. Where your talents will be appreciated and appropriately utilized."

And the Soldier had simply stared as though he didn't speak English. Pierce resisted the urge to slap him.

That was over thirty years ago now. And to think that when Rogers wakes, the loss of Barnes will still be a few days old from his perspective. Pierce hopes it stings.

"Did you even realize what you had in Barnes?" he asks. His fingers are digging into the captain's hand ever so slightly, but Rogers might as well be dead for all he reacts. "You clearly didn't care enough to keep him safe. But you won't have to concern yourself with that now. I've got it covered."

And he has. The Soldier has flourished under Pierce's command. Were he still Lukin's, he'd have no doubt been reduced to a mindless vegetable by this point. A full restoration of his previous capabilities was impossible and the Soldier is still disgustingly docile, but he hasn't deteriorated further. He is safe from misuse, safe from himself, and he's helping to save the world under Pierce's protection.

If Rogers ever finds out, he ought to be grateful.

The Soldier is going back into ice now as SHIELD waits for Rogers to wake. Barnes had arrived at Pierce's home last night, successful and blood-soaked from his latest mission, while Pierce's mind was spinning from the alcohol he'd consumed. He may have, in that state, ordered the Soldier to declare that Pierce was better than Rogers. He may have made the confused weapon recite it until he lost his already rasping voice.

"I'm glad that you're back," Pierce says, squeezing the captain's hand a final time before releasing. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his own hands with the silk. "I can't wait to see what you make of the world that you left us. Or what you'll think of the way I'll shape the world, if you live long enough to see it."

The door clicks; Coulson enters followed by the medical staff.

"Thank you," Pierce says, standing. He adds before Coulson can ask, "There hasn't been any change."

Coulson nods. "He'll come out of it soon enough." There's no doubt in his voice. Pure conviction. Pure trust.

Pathetic.

"It's almost a shame." Pierce slips the handkerchief back into his suit coat, casting another glance to the body on the bed. "He's given so much for this country, for the world, and he couldn't even rest in peace."

"He'll get to see all he's accomplished," Coulson says, sitting back down. "That's something."

"Yes, there's that. And the world can always use a hero." Pierce has to turn away to conceal his smirk at that. Heroes. Soon enough, he'll show the world what true heroes look like.

And now that Rogers will be here to see it, that plan tastes all the sweeter.

* * *

><p>AN: The meanings of the Russian transliterations are as follows:

[_Moy_] _malen'kiy soldat:_ [My] little soldier

_Zdravstvuyte_: Hello


End file.
